


The Mirror Version

by halocentury



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Actual New Scene, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Don't Play with Fire, Eddie Learned the Trashmouth From the Source, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Language, Explicit Language in the Heat of the Moment, M/M, Richie Tozier's Trashmouth, What-If
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24825820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halocentury/pseuds/halocentury
Summary: What If?Eddie is no longer that scrappy kid, but in the bathroom his first reaction is to resist. Fight back.How the fight could've happened in the bathroom. And everything else that follows.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 19
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> After exchanging ideas with my friend, I had this particular thought. In Chapter One, Beverly was taken by Pennywise to break up the teenaged dream team, to ensure they can't take him/IT down. Or she was the bait to draw the kids down to him so he could beat them soundly.
> 
> Bad decision, he lost round one. 
> 
> Chapter Two, what if Pennywise thought he could take out the weakest links, one by one? Stan did him the favour. But beating Eddie should be a piece of cake, right? 
> 
> Clearly he wasn't. 
> 
> Yet... what if? What if Eddie was bait? To lure the five remaining Losers down to beat them. WIthout a full team, they would definitely be easier to pick off. Or maybe with Eddie missing the team would break up again.
> 
> So basically, a potential re-writing of the ending.

He is filth and stomach acid and the most putrid stench that he’s ever known in his adult life and he needs to get his shirt off immediately.

His mind is in a state that is both offline and nonstop, thoughts too crammed together to make any sense. At least his body is operating at basic level, shuddering and threatening to heave as an automatic reaction. It’s a wonder that he didn’t throw up in the pharmacy as soon as that… thing, the leper, Pennywise regurgitated all over him. 

Better stomach than Richie at least.

He’ll consider grabbing a clean shirt and jacket after the bathroom. He’s soaked from the waist up, and it goes to show how much Derry is under the spell of the supernatural that no one batted an eye as he walked back to the Inn, reeking of someone else’s body fluids.

His skin is crawling under the collective cesspool. The only good thing is that he doesn’t have any open cuts on his hands or face. 

It’s with churning stomach that he recalls he was in mid-yell when all of it splattered in one thick infested wave over him.

Forget about the diseases that he knows about, that he risks getting infected by daily in New York City. There’s a new, unknown list of what he might now suffer from, contagions from supernatural murderous clowns.

He walks by, sputtering about being fine to Bev as he hurries up to his room. Pushing the door open to the bathroom and turning on the sink. 

Wash hands first, scrubbing frantically. Fingernails, around and underneath, the back of his hands, knuckles and between fingers. Clean the wrists, up his thumbs before scrubbing at his palms again.

One layer of vomit gone he splashes clean water onto his face, scrubbing hard, wishing there’s a way to clean his mouth all the way down to his stomach. 

Ice cold panic freezes him to the spot when a second reflection is in the mirror, aged like him and his friends. Something tells him he should know who he is, the voice is no indication, but the knife to his cheek tells him all.

Bowers. Is in his bathroom. 

Staggering, fingers grasping at nothing in the shock and pain, he stammers, knowing he should be yelling. He doesn’t know how loud he can even get, mumbling with the blood filling his mouth, the knife that makes it close to impossible. 

Somehow Bowers knows, stalking around him, arms spready, ready to lash out again, thirsty for blood and revenge. “Because he says it’s your time”

His face is numb, head groggy, but he backs away. The smart thing would be to run for the door but he has to get past Bowers first. “Who says it’s my time?”

“You know Eddie. You know.”

He has to gulp, the blood dripping down his throat, knowing otherwise he’ll be dripping it over his mouth to his chin, after trying to clean his face.

“Time to float.”

No.

Fuck no.

He’s not some scrappy kid, and he doesn’t have rocks to throw at his teenaged bullies, but he throws his weight forward, which is not what Bowers expects. He manages to land square against him, surprising him more than anything, as he pushes Bowers against the wall.

The open window should shudder. The wall should at least reverberate with the impact. But everything sounds muted in his ears. Maybe it’s the blood pounding in his head, and his mouth, that he just can’t hear anything properly. 

Except when Bowers grabs for the knife, yanking it further across his cheek, his scream starts off as a yelp and silences entirely, though he knows, from the way his whole body tenses, the echo in his head, that he is still screaming by the twisting of his mouth and how his whole face is in agony.

He should hear himself, anyone in the Inn should hear him, but something tells him he’s alone in this.

Bower fixes his gaze back on him, slashing as he charges back towards him. Cutting through the layer of his jacket, he feels the blade dig over his arms, which is at least safer than a second stab to his face, or his chest.

All the time he can’t look away from the eyes as they transition, shifting brighter to a manic yellow, limned with white.

The back of his legs hit the bathtub and he topples backwards, grabbing the shower curtain to keep him on his feet. 

Instead he’s mummified, the curtain twisting in ways that is not considered normal.

Derry, and Pennywise, do not obey the laws of normalcy. 

“Where did he go?”

He claws at the curtain, almost getting his face out.

Except before he can gasp air in, hand pulling back the last portion smothering his mouth and nose, the knife stabs his hand. 

It should be an H, carving into his hand. He’s seen it on Ben, but after the one jagged line that slices down, a curve slices over the top half. 

Despite the pain, and the hot blood dripping from hand to wrist, he manages to get his fingers around the slim hilt, pulling it away from Bower’s hand.

His hand is weak as he tries to stab him back.

“Now give me back my fucking knife.”

His head hits the edge of the tub as he’s pulled along, cocooned in the shower curtain, but when his fingers slacken Bowers takes the knife.

It’s not a life-threatening pain that fills his chest, but it stuns enough after all the other blows, and white turns to black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the library.

The warmth of the library, the familiar faces and sounds, vanished by nightfall. Everything they needed for the ritual was laid out on the table, the rock in his pocket. He ran through the process in his mind, the silence helping him to focus. 

It wasn’t scary, the dark or the quiet. It reassured him, filled him with the purpose they would all need.

Michael waited, pacing from the bookshelves, straightening out books only to return to the window. He kept an eye out, making sure there wasn’t any suspicious activity. 

It could be suspicious as Richie entered, greeting him with a rough nod. He imagined that even if Richie once frequented the library, coming in after closing hours would be the last thing he’d want to do.

“I like what you did to the place,” Richie remarked, looking around, before going to the table. Giving him a dry look, Michael nearly rolled his eyes. “No really,” he persisted, motioning to the display of old weapons, under glass. “The blend of elegance and brutality really fits the ‘let’s kill the monster’ motif. Spooky. Very Derry-esque.”

“There will be no killing in here, not unless you’re ready to pay for damages,” Michael warned him, prompting Richie to take a step back.

“Yeah, my pay cheque won’t cover that. No battle-axes for me, though it does look tempting enough use.” The look Richie gave it was certainly one full of longing.

“Save that energy for the Neilbolt house,” Ben called, causing Richie to start. 

They both turned to greet Ben, who entered with Beverly. “Glad to see that your car was in the library parking lot.” Her expression was mostly neutral, even though the dig was heard in her tone.

“I was canvasing the area, making sure to get an APB out on all clowns.”

“I’m sure that will be very effective, what with the fair going on.” Michael grabbed his items from the table, glancing around the room. “So we’ll be meeting up with Bill and Eddie at the house?”

“They ran off, Bill had to find a boy who’s in danger,” Beverly explained, and sharing it with them, tense and giving a half-smile, she wasn’t convinced it was the best decision.

“We’re not completely separated, that’s not a bad thing,” Ben said, speaking to all of them, but trying to reassure her. 

“We need to be at the house for Pennywise, that’s the important part.” The only doors left unlocked being the back doors, Michael led the way to the back of the library while lifting his phone to his ear, frowning when his call connected. “Bill, we’re all at the library, where are you at?”

They all staggered to a stop, listening to his attempt to placate Bill. “No no no, just just, look - just come here we’re at the library. We can talk about the plan.”

It shouldn’t be surprising, and it wasn’t, they could all imagine Bill charging in on his own, as if he was going in after Georgie all over again. Yet, something entirely different was crossing over Michael’s features, something related to what Bill was saying but no one else heard.

He didn’t turn off his phone, lowering it to his side, mouth agape and barely breathing. “Mike, what’s wrong?” Ben asked, moving cautiously closer.

“He…” He couldn’t move his hands the way he wanted to, fingers clenching, one hand on the stoppered urn and the other around his phone, the sound of a hung-up call tinny from the speaker. “He – Bill-“

Beverly moved to him, taking his phone and hitting the end button. “What did he say?”

It took a visibly concentrated effort to not even attempt to glance to Richie. With a shaky breath he looked from Beverly to Ben. “Did you see…” Swallowing and trying to regather his wits, he tensed. “Did you see Eddie leave with Bill?”

All eyes focussed on Beverly and it took far too long for her to shake her head. “No, I – I saw Bill run out of the Inn.”

With his hand freed he almost gestured to Richie, who remained silent and unmoving. “And…” Refusing to flinch Michael glanced over her shoulder to Ben. “And his car was still at the Inn?”

Ben barely moved for nodding, the uncertainty tightening its grip on all of them. “What’s – what did Bill say?” Ben asked.

Before he could answer, stumbling over the words that he didn’t want to say, Richie stomped over, no humour whatsoever, not uncertain but terrified. “Where the fuck is Eddie?”

Nodding helplessly, wagging his hand in gesture to Richie, Michael shook his head, close to tears. “He’s not with Bill. There’s… no way he went with Bill.”

“He’s… missing?” Beverly asked, fighting her own battle with quaking hands.

They could only hope.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the Neilbolt House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anything written in the format of [ _text_ ] is Pennywise speaking within a person's mind. Or at least, speaking in their proximity but no one else can hear Pennywise, only one person.
> 
> And Pennywise is more than happy to take inspiration from people's thoughts, if It thinks they're worthy enough. ;)

Twenty-seven years later he was back in the cistern. Perhaps it was foolish, or the hope of children who were yet to become jaded adults, but he truly thought they had defeated It all that time ago. 

There was no doubt who he had seen when he was trapped in the bathroom. It was Bowers advancing on him but It was the driving force behind him, those yellow eyes didn’t lie to him. He had seen those eyes several times that summer and despite his memory fading as he grew older, moved to New York, that wasn’t the type of thing to stay buried.

It was back, and as he was still cocooned in the shower curtain, suspended at least ten feet above the ground. Upside down, woozy from the poor angle and coming back to consciousness, he tilted his head further back – or was it actually down – to get a glimpse of something that wasn’t transparent white, wrapped so thickly that it was like a spider’s web encasing a doomed fly.

[Spiders Eds? Oh, you are welcome into my parlour. Always welcome.]

Jerking, he craned his head further for the glimpse of green that made up the chamber of the cistern, something that he instantly remembered despite the dread that trickled through his veins. Goosebumps tickling over him like the tiny feet of many spiders. He shook and gasped, breath heaving as he could picture the yellow eyes fixated on him. 

When he finally found a loose fold of fabric, he could only look out with one eye. Maybe It was lurking around, but the first thing he saw was Bowers. It was hard to hear him properly, and he was talking to someone, if not himself. He wouldn’t put it past him.

It was difficult to try and move, his feet anchored by a fixed invisible point, and his legs were similarly immobile up to his knees, but out of the corner of his limited line of vision, he thought he saw matted clumps of black hair. So possibly, there were three people in the cistern? Or, at least two people and one supernatural clown.

“Are you awake up there Kaspbrak?” Bowers yelled up to him. That was… somewhat reassuring, strange as it was. Despite being trapped with two dangerous… demons of his past, Bowers was still human, and he was well out of the madman’s reach. While he was dangerous with a knife, he had zero ability in throwing knives from a distance, and even if he did, throwing at a target above him would be too tricky.

One small blessing that he was willing to take. 

“No, not at all. I’m pretty sure I having a fever dream right now.” At least he hoped Bowers heard him. He had a small peephole to observe him from, but his mouth was quite well muffled by the curtain and his voice couldn’t possibly carry.

Except… if that was the case, shouldn’t he have suffocated to death? Maybe the peephole was meant to be his breathing hole in addition to letting him see. 

So Pennywise wasn’t going for the kill, at least not yet. 

Why? It’s not like It had been merciful to him in the pharmacy. He came out physically unharmed, though stinking of vomit was punishment on its own.

“You’re not dreaming Kaspbrak, I can assure you of that.”

“Yeah? It’s not that I want to spend my waking hours with you, so if you are here, I am willing to believe this is a fever dream. Or a nightmare. That’s what you’ve always been after all. Walking and smelling like a mental ward. Shouldn’t you be in one? It must be really scrapping at the bottom of the reject pile if It enlisted you to help out.”

“I brought you here, so I’d say it fucking worked!”

“Actually….” He tried to bob his head, looked more like he was swaying, as it did get him swinging like a church bell from the waist up (down, this upside-down shit was screwing up his whole concept of direction). “I was in the process of kicking your ass until Pennywise had to step in for you. You probably don’t know it, but your ugly face had a charming glow of… non-human, when your eyes turned the shade of dog piss.”

“I’m going to kill you!”

He barked out a laugh, still swaying. “But I’m alive! I am swaddled from head to foot, I should have been smothered to death before we even got here. It wants me alive you idiot!”

For what purpose… he had yet to be enlightened. 

It would’ve made more sense if It had killed him. It had already gotten to Stan, so taking out another link would’ve weakened the chain further. Maybe they could’ve completed the ritual with the six of them, but missing two people, would it be doable?

Using him as bait, not unlike Beverly, that might be possible. Back then, It had tried to pick them off one by one, terrorizing them in view of one another, using the fear for the safety of one another to target them all. 

Then again, It may be toying with him, as he did in the Neilbolt house. Outside, beckoning and taunting him from the front porch, and inside, in the kitchen as he bared his teeth, to his face and his broken arm. A cat and mouse game, still going on twenty-seven years later.

Now, spider to the fly. 

[There are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets are fine and thin…]

He was pretty sure Bowers was yelling at him still, but when the voice crept back into his head, Eddie snapped his attention away, trying to find the source, which came from all around, reverberating yet also sing-song.

[And if you like to rest awhile… ]

His body shook beyond his own control, bones rattling as something grabbed him. This time, he knew this was It, even though the grip on his arms that shook him like a doll, the grip seemed to mirror hands that were wide enough to grab him from hips to arm pits, further pinning his arms to his sides.

And the stench of hot breath, focussing on his ear, spanned wet and covering all of his bare skin from temple to neck.

[Eddie! I’ll do you in!]

*

Mike froze as soon as he stepped inside the house, taking in the front parlour as everyone walked through. If he didn’t know any better, he could’ve sworn he felt a flash of pain go through his arm and a scream. It didn’t sound like It, the clown was always cackling, but something was familiar about it. 

“Mike, are you alright?” Ben asked, looking from the mirror to him.

“I thought I heard something,” Mike replied, rubbing his left arm warily.

“Was it Eddie?” Everyone looked to Richie, his question valid, and alarming. 

“It… might’ve been.” Everyone slowed their steps and all movement, letting their eyes linger longer on the shadows, into the corners of the room. 

“Eddie?” Beverly called, not bothering to be quiet, pacing the room, squeezing the fencepost tight. 

“Eddie!” Bill called louder, knowing that they would be going down into the cistern. The chance of his voice carrying that far was slim to none but moving further into the house, to the kitchen, maybe would improve the pitch and distance heard. 

Richie followed him, pushing the door to the wall. 

It nearly took off his hand when it slammed back into position, stuck, locked in the closed position. “Ben! Bev!” He could hear a moan from the parlour, and though it sounded deeper, his worst fear twisted the voice into something higher, more frantic. “Ed!”

In more likelihood, that was Beverly’s voice, frantic as was Mike, the two going on about something that was happening to Ben. He struggled with the doorknob, banging on the door, not hearing their words due to the commotion going on behind him.

Until it stopped. Mike and Beverly and Ben, they were still yelling, but Richie turned around slowly, looking first to Bill. The fridge, as it turned out to be that appliance that was making the noise, shaking from side-to-side, settled with one last thump. “Okay, that can’t be good.”

And of all the doors to open, not the one that remained stuck, the fridge door squeaked on its rusty hinges. Expecting Pennywise, they stared at the contorted body of teenaged Stan. “Wha- what’s happening to me?”

Until his head cracked clean off his neck, and rolled into the middle of the kitchen with the same scream when Pennywise was trying to rip his face off. 

When it came to a stop, it wasn’t Stan who stared up at them, but Eddie, as they had last seen him, except bloodied and grey flaking skin around sunken cheeks and eyes. 

“Bill, why did you leave me?” 

No one had relayed the conversation they had in the library when they met up with Bill, not knowing that they originally thought Eddie had left with him to go to the fair, but It wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to lay blame when the opportunity presented itself. 

And seeing Bill shake his head, stammering out a denial, It cackled. Between Eddie’s cries of pain, the laughter rung out as skin punctured and ripped, legs sprouting from Eddie’s face and eyes, until six legs allowed it to scramble towards Bill.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Until It heard Richie. Twisting to face Richie It made Eddie’s eyes widen, tearful and scared, and most of all, rejected.

“Richie, you were going to leave me again? Without saying goodbye?”

“I-I-I didn’t! I came back, I’m here – I’m gonna – we’re going to get you back!” Richie protested, shaking his head. 

Where words didn’t assuage, and It never intended to be persuaded by the reassurances of simpletons, he launched himself forward in Its newly spider-Eddie form, spitting and snarling and snapping. It cackled in delight, chasing after Richie and Bill in the closed off room. 

And it wasn’t until It tore into Bill’s pant leg, not to bite but to drag him down in a hard crash, that It launched himself at Bill, tearing with Its legs to rip through his shirt to the tender skin underneath, not unlike It did to Ben.

“Richie!”

“Richie!”

Richie stood, listening to Bill plead for him, but frozen by It – Eddie’s mocking voice, teasing him for not being able to move forward, strike down the face of the man that he was more than terrified for, who he was going to be fighting to protect. But… what if like Stan, twisted up into the fridge, Eddie was dead too? That this was the only way to keep him here, with him, to let him go after Bill?

He didn’t get to make that choice, when the kitchen door slammed open and Mike, Ben and Beverly charged in. Richie was still sobbing loudly, face sweaty and tear-stained as everyone else had to fight in his stead. 

He threw up as soon as Beverly stabbed Eddie’s head, clutching his head rather than his stomach.

“Richie! What were you doing, Bill was being attacked!” Ben demanded, wheeling around on Richie, stooped over, heaving as though he was going to throw up again.

Yet as soon as he registered Ben, the anger, everyone crowding around him, he stood up, knees knocking together and barely keeping him upright. “Stan – It was Stan. He was in the fridge, and we know Stan’s dead – and then – I couldn’t – you-“ Heaving, feeling the bile raise in his throat, he gagged and shook his head hard enough for his glasses to slide askew before jerking his hand to Eddie’s stabbed head. “You didn’t see him, look at him! It got Stan, It got Eddie. Eddie’s dead, Pennywise killed Eddie!”

Bill nodded, and twisted to his side to avoid the spider as It lifted what should’ve been a dead body. Turned around to bestow them with Eddie’s impaled face, to everyone’s moans and gasps. It cackled as It dragged himself to the basement stairs, down and out of sight. 

“You were in the goddamn Inn!” Richie yelled, glaring at Beverly and Ben. “You didn’t hear Pennywise kill him? What the fuck were you two doing? Fucking?”

“Don’t you dare talk to Bev that way!” Ben yelled back, getting into his face, despite Mike trying to pull him back.

Richie got nose to nose to him, staring him back. “You let him die! At the Inn, and you killed him now! Beverly just impaled him with a fencepost, no hesitation! Is that what you’re going to do friends? To any of us!” His breath hitched, sobs forgotten in his anger, breathless before continued. “And after Bill ran out on us too! You’re all in it for yourselves! Bill for George and you two for your failed love life, since you couldn’t do it back in high school!”

“Richie, you need to calm down.” Mike squeezed Richie’s arm tight, even as his left arm continued to throb. Bill was on his feet now, holding onto Ben’s arm while Beverly held the other one. “We need to do this ritual, for Stan and Eddie now. We need to do this together, otherwise it won’t work. Do you want to let them down, when we are so close?”

The burning in his throat had nothing to do with another stomach-relieving heave. 

He sobbed and lurched into Mike’s arms, crying into his shoulder.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the cistern

He didn’t know where his flashlight had gone to, most probably dropped in the water. 

It was a minor loss, one that he can easily give up, now that Beverly was safe in his arms. She didn’t even try to push him off, squeezing him just as tight as he held her. 

“I’m sorry, I can’t lose you – I never meant the words I said,” Richie stammered, throat strangely dry, sore and tight, as they precariously balanced on the platform, the only dry refuge before they continued further down the cistern.

“I know,” Beverly assured him, pulling back and almost sitting on her calves, but giving him a pointed look, not too stern with an uptick of the corner of her mouth. “But don’t ever say that about me again, you’re getting off with a warning this time, and for good reason.”

Inhaling deeply, trying to keep calm despite remembering spider-Eddie from upstairs, he nodded, bit his lip to keep it from bubbling back into tears. “I – know, I shouldn’t have. I was just-”

“I get it.” They couldn’t admit it out loud, not when they had their own, separate, confused thoughts to sort through. Similar in nature, wanting someone and never quite sure if actions matched words, or words matched what their hearts craved. 

Sympathetic and sighing nearly at the same time, Beverly stood up, leaving Richie to push himself onto his feet. “I’ve lost my flashlight,” he announced sheepishly, “but we have everything else still, right?”

There was a pocket-check from everyone, that resulted in everyone realising that their phones had all gotten soaked, both from the walk and the dive back into the water, but everyone still had their artifacts, and their respective flashlights.

Richie descended last in the second half of their journey down, giving one last look around to the platform for his light. Even hoping for that pruned lady to leap out of the water, or at least throw his flashlight back at him. The water was flat as glass though and, reluctantly, he steadied himself on the rungs.

He was a fair distance behind the others, seeing them as nothing more than varying lengths of dark figures, the beams of their flashlights providing sparse lighting in the underground. He lengthened his strides, the path turning tight and steep in places, until he caught up. 

He was met with relief while everyone was looking around, some of the tension abating. He didn’t stop to think why, until he realised that Pennywise wasn’t lying in wait. After the witchcraft in the house and the lady in the water, It – in Itself – hadn’t showed up. They hadn’t seen It specifically, though It had to be somewhere, breathing slowly, if It was even capable of that, living on for millennia. 

The longer Michael looked around, nothing springing out at them, he stepped away, making his way to a central spot, shielded by what looked like bones, but the sensible part of his brain insisted they were stalagmites, or at least something resembling them. Within, directly in the middle, there was a flat rock, which was the perfect location for the artifact that would hold all their tokens. 

Falling into his orbit, taking his lead, everyone else drew nearer. 

“This will still work?” Bill asked, nearly frowning as they all formed a circle around the artifact. “O-only – with the five of us?”

“The number shouldn’t be an issue, it’s what we do.” They all jerked their gazes towards Michael, only to try and take comfort from his last four words, expressions resolving with confidence and a couple of nods. “We’re doing this for them now, we aren’t going to let them down.”

Bill kept his gaze on Michael for longer, counting all the people he had lost, from twenty-seven years ago to today. “For all of them,” he agreed, reaching for the paper boat he had tucked away.

For a moment the only sound was the shifting of rock and silt under their feet, remarkably dry despite their trek through the water. And maybe if they listened hard enough they could’ve heard the rippling of water overhead. Instead they concentrated on Michael, who put the lighter fluid back in his satchel before striking a match.

The moment he dropped his lit match into the artifact, flames shooting up, a loud rumble echoed around the immediate area. 

“I don’t like that sound,” Ben commented, looking nervously up to the cavernous ceiling. Nothing was crumbling down on him, not even a speck of dust-sized rock. 

“Maybe it’s Bev’s nanny up there,” Richie suggested, looking around too, but shoulders tense. 

“Still not reassuring.” Ben took a deep breath before jerking his gaze to Michael as he stood up. “Can we start?” 

Michael nodded, pushing his satchel out of the way with his foot, to the gap between him and Ben. “Everyone has their artifacts?”

He already had his rock in hand but he nearly dropped it when he was grabbed from behind, an arm hooking around his throat, and something catching in the firelight, glinting and pressed with a sharp tip digging through his shirt as he tried to buck free from the hold.

“You aren’t going to be needing those,” a voice growled into his ear. The arm didn’t loosen, and the fist holding the knife to his stomach didn’t move, but he could feel long hair whipping around his neck. “Now back off all of you, or your boy scout will be killed!” 

“Bowers?” Bill stared at Michael, or at least at the man who was backing away from them, dragging a shocked Michael with him. “How did you get out?”

Ben was backing up, a hand going for Beverly, half by instinct. “This has nothing to do with you Bowers,” he said, trying to be placating. “Just let us go, we have different business down there.”

“Oh, but it is.” Bowers laughed, shifting side to side, looking like he was dancing with a doll, to evade Bill as he moved after Michael, but with every sway, the knife scratched more, cutting through his shirt with every sawing motion, but yet to cut through skin. “You see, we are just the semi-finals.” 

Richie groaned, not ready to face off with the clown when he was still dwelling on the spider in the house. “We? Fuck, why did you have to team up with that damn clown?”

Bowers laughed again, grinning wider, not the sharp-teeth that all of them were dreading to see next. “Nuh uh. You’re not making it to the finals.”

Ben jolted first when a burst of flame erupted from behind the other half of the circle, a billow that wasn’t aiming at him but catching on Richie’s jacket sleeve. It distracted Bill long enough, Richie yelling in panic and trying to get his jacket off fast enough. Between the two of them, hustling to pull the jacket off before it burned through to his arm, and dodging more billows of fire, growing larger by the number, they didn’t see Pennywise, though everyone was looking for It. 

“Burn them all!” Bowers cackled, his excitement adding extra muscle to the stranglehold on Michael’s throat as he tried to pry his arm away, cutting his breath weaker and thinner. “Burn the whole place down!” 

“Mike!” Beverly started to dart for him, but was cut off when the flames changed direction, nearly singeing her in the process except she ducked just in time. But the movement, hers and the origin of the fire, drew a second figure out from the shadows, tall yet thin, like a kid yet to grow into his own body. 

It was seeing the outstretched arm, thrust out beside him, with a familiar lighter, and a distinct sound of something shaking in a metal can, that resulted in Richie throwing himself to the ground, a protective manoeuvre as well as outright shock. “Hockstetter?! What the hell?”

The hair was right, even as matted as it was, dried-out and frizzy around a face that was wrinkled and blistered from third-degree burn. That mouth twisted into that old recognisable sneer, a mocking grin as he twisted to blaze a fire at the man on the ground. 

Richie rolled away at the last minute, hitting the rock, the artifact tipping slightly before resettling.

Pennywise would’ve loved the pandemonium that followed. 

In the initial panic Beverly had forgotten about the fencepost she had been carrying, but as Richie struggled to get up despite Hockstetter repeatedly spraying fireballs at him, she swung the fencepost at the teenager. It was enough of a distraction for Richie to scramble to his feet, but the next burst of fire engulfed the fencepost, the metal turning burning hot instantly. She dropped it with a screech, palms turning pink. She darted between the stalagmites to get away, not the same gap that Richie escaped through, but knowing that their sacrificial circle was too small to give them a fighting chance, they needed to get out in the open 

Bowers wasn’t looking for a fight, just needed a better route to drag Michael out from completing the ritual, and was backing away, twisting around to dodge Bill and Ben as they followed after him, nearly tripping around Michael’s feet as he clenched at Bower’s arm. 

A burst of flame at Bill and Ben’s backs converged the fight again, everyone yelling in attempts at distraction, dodging the fire as it licked in all directions, the cistern flickering between shades of green and red, between heat and cold. At once clammy and aching, the sickness of Derry, in its underbelly, trickling out from the cistern and into town, was it any wonder no one knew what lurked underneath?

Dodging Hockstetter and chasing Bowers, they lost ground in the same increments as they gained it, one second nearly grabbing Bowers by the hair, or trying to grab the knife away, but Hockstetter was hot on their heels. Richie would’ve laughed but for the most part he was yelling, jumping back, colliding into Bill. Everyone scrambling, stumbling over the uneven ground, barely avoiding falls or skinning knees and hands when they couldn’t. Trying to catch each other, teaming up to take on Bowers for several seconds before Hockstetter was back to picking them apart, a flame splitting them in opposite directions. 

Richie lunged again for Bowers, but in a crash of far too many elbows, not to mention a close-call for all four of them, fire missing them by inches, he had to spin away, grabbing hold of his glasses before they slid down his sweaty nose. 

Beverly and Ben continued to surge forward, only the sudden slash away from Michael’s belly, towards them, that had them tripping back, avoiding the knife that Bowers wielded at them. Bill jumped on Bowers back, in a feat that surprised all of them, but with a roar and spinning around trying to shake him off, Bill had to throw himself loose to avoid hitting one of the stalagmites, not to mention the fireball that hit the stalagmite instead of his body. 

Several fire bursts kept Ben separated from Bill, dazed and slow to get up from the ground, Beverly running back for Bowers, hoping to take advantage of him while he was disoriented, but it was a wild elbow, Michael’s or Bowers’, she couldn’t tell, that hit her in the forehead and knocked her flat to the ground. 

Hockstetter grinned, soundlessly laughed as he flicked his lighter repeatedly, spraying his trusty flammable canister at the distracted losers. He didn’t register who was yelling what as the three tried to crawl, half-drag themselves out of range. 

It was a wounded cry, one that he had yet to hear that night, that had him jerking his head up, away from the equally confused Losers on the ground.

Richie stood heaving, gasping for air, letting go of the fencepost that pierced through Bower’s forehead, before gagging and throwing up off to the side where Bower’s collapsed.

Michael remained on his feet, remarkable for how his head dropped limply for a moment, as he staggered to stand over Bower’s body. Lightheaded as he was, struggling to regain his breath, he gritted his teeth while grounding one foot into Bower’s stomach; using all his strength he grabbed the fencepost with both hands and ripped it free, ignoring the blood trickling down, over his hands as he turned to face Hockstetter. 

The biggest fireball yet targeted him, catching the fencepost first. Michael didn’t so much throw the fencepost away as his fingers slackened, intending to drop it, but Richie threw himself against him to knock them both to the ground, avoiding a worse burning then his hands.

The canister should’ve been empty, but it sprayed at a constant pressure, painting the cistern a brilliant red as everyone tried to get to their feet, dodging the fire. No longer bursts or blasts, it was a stream that chased them, casting smoke all around. Coughing and trying to flee, pulling one another along, and taking Bill’s shouted direction, they ran to the narrow path that they squeezed in through, but to run out. 

Yet the fire and smoke was thick, concealing the direction, leading them in circles as Hockstetter followed, the fire preventing escape. He didn’t need to run, the fire weaving around them, trapping them.

“We can’t leave!” Michael yelled, wanting to run back to the still burning artifact, ignoring how Ben and Bill were pulling him away from Hockstetter, the smaller figure casting a shadow much bigger, a looming death that encroached nearer. 

Michael pulled, strained, nearly face to face with the kid when Hockstetter jolted, eyes wide, dropping the lighter and canister before tripping face first to the ground. 

In the flames that surrounded them, a third figure walked towards them, unaffected by the smoke. 

Bill’s hands slackened but didn’t let go of Michael, bracing for another sound beating. “What now?”


End file.
